


Five times John Talked to an Empty Grave

by bee_obsessed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221 b drabbles, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_obsessed/pseuds/bee_obsessed





	1. First

You should see the the daffodils Mrs Hudson planted just next to... here. Against the black of...  
Well they look beautiful, elegant. I think you would appreciate how the colours contrast. She planted them last month. It's been raining a lot lately, but they already flowered. You'd like them. You like beautiful, elegant things.  
It's been... about a month, since I cried for you.  
There's something that keeps bothering me. Quite a lot.  
It's all I can think about, to be fair.  
And that's that it doesn't make sense.  
None of it does.  
Why did you jump?  
I don't understand it. I wish you were here to explain it, the way you do.  
I never doubted you. Never. I told you, I'm a hundred per cent sure.  
Moriarty was real.  
Then why did you jump?  
Because newspaper would call you a fraud? Because I know you aren't. That should be enough, shouldn't it? You never cared for what people thought. I like to believe you only cared what I thought.  
Silly.  
So why did you jump?  
Please help me understand.  
I cannot shake the thought that you didn't, that you're alive. I just can't.  
I cannot mourn you. It would be healthy to do so, and I'd be able to get over it I think.  
As always, I'm a step behind.


	2. Second

The weather is lovely today.  
The sun is actually warm. I cannot feel it. I have this coldness in my heart that I cannot shake.  
God, I sound like bad poetry. Sorry.  
I talked to Lestrade yesterday. We went out for a pint. I kept my thoughts to myself until now, but I needed to tell him.  
His eyes, you should have seen them. They went from pity to remorse, to pity again. Poor John Watson, he's actually gone crazy.  
Maybe I am crazy.   
He feels guilty. He drank to much and I suspect he's been doing that a lot lately.  
It was awful.  
I wish Moriarty had killed you. Even if it meant he defeated you.  
I don't care.  
At least I'd know for sure.  
I saw your face streaked with blood, I felt your pulse.  
But it's not enough.  
I know it's not rational, but neither was killing yourself over lies. And you never did anything that wasn't rational.  
The way he looked at me, it tear a hole in my spirit. I won't go out with him again. It hurts too much to see that everyone else has given up on you.  
I haven't.  
I miss you. I miss running around London after you. I miss taking care of you.  
Sometimes I make tea for two just because.


	3. Third

God, I was here only yesterday. I should stop coming so often. But it helps, talking to you.  
I've been talking to dead things a lot lately. I have entire conversations with the skull. Sometimes I scare Mrs Hudson, because I shout at him. But only when he's being unreasonable.  
I guess it's not normal. I know it's not healthy.  
But I have no one.  
Anyway, I went to Barts today, to see Molly.  
I thought if nothing else she would have put her hand on my shoulder and told me something kind. Like John, you're barking mad. But, you know, at least she would have done it gently.  
She's smart. I actually thought she would give me an explanation for why you did what you did.  
But it seems that I'm the only one who's been wondering about your reasons.  
As soon as I mentioned your name her eyes filled with tears.  
I told her you couldn't be dead, that it made no sense.   
She tried to hide it but she was trembling from head to toe as I spoke. She started fumbling about, washing beakers that were already clean, moving Petri dishes from one counter to another... pretending to be busy.  
She completely ignored me, kept sobbing quietly and running about the morgue.  
I left without even saying bye.


	4. Fourth

Denial.  
Her professional opinion.  
How insightful.  
I never got past this stage of grief. But I can't bring myself to be angry at you.  
I'm angry at Mycroft. And at myself.

Just... don't be dead. Mh? Can you do that? For me, please.  
The flat is empty without you in it. I'm empty.  
I've never missed someone the way I miss you.  
There, I said it, if it needed saying.

Ella. I don't like her.  
Maybe I should just fire her.  
Ah, trust issues. Right.  
You know... it's kind of a bad time for me.  
The high of my week is getting drunk alone in our flat and talk to the skull, for fuck's sake.  
Maybe I need to change therapist.  
Because right now it feels too much like when I got back from Afghanistan.  
I'm back where I was when I met you. Alone and desperate.  
Even the tremors are back.

I'm going to Scotland next week, I have family there. It'll be nice. I'll be walking in the Highlands, to get the London fog out of my lungs. Maybe I'll do some job hunting in Edinburgh. Maybe a change of scenery is what I need.  
Because every stone reminds me of you in London.

I still make dinner for two most days, and buy your favourite brand of baked beans.


	5. Fifth

John traces the name with his finger, cleaning the dust that's been gathering in the incision.  
The sun is setting, it's the light of the magic hour.  
He sits on the grass and breaths in deeply the smell of summer.  
Amazing. Every year there is that day when the smell in the air changes, and you can smell the new season. Every year you forget how summer evenings smell like. The memory is there, but it's never precise. And every time that first whiff is surprising, and it's easy to define that feeling as pure, unadulterated happiness. John smiles at himself as he considers this.  
His smile fades when he thinks that the last time he felt the summer, he was with Sherlock, walking back home in silence after another criminal had been brought to justice.  
Another life.

He doesn't remember what terrifying crime scene they had just left.  
All he remembers is the warmth in the wind, and walking on Sherlock's side and the quiet.  
And the little pants in Sherlock's breath. He walked too fast. He always did when he was thinking.  
He had felt happiness then, with Sherlock next to him and the shared silence. With the adrenaline and the battlefield.

“I met a woman.”  
John smiles.  
“Her name is Mary. She's a thing of beauty.”


End file.
